You Can Make Yourself Love Anybody
by Bawgdan
Summary: Hysteria: exaggerated or uncontrollable emotion or excitement, especially among a group of people. The mysterious disappearance of buttons, a stray cat, and an indifferent higher power. Either God works in mysterious ways or the devil stays busy.
1. A Closed Mouth Catches No Flies

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There are two types of people in the world. People who do as they are told without a challenge and those who ask questions. Curiosity doesn't kill the cat. The cat learns how to hunt, when to cross the street, he earns intelligence. With intelligence there is freedom.

Chrollo never liked the phrase.

He uses the softest napkin he's ever held to dab at his runny nose. A chill courses throughout his body but his temples are hot. He can't even smell the blood.

"I feel a little bit terrible," Pakunoda shakes a golden bracelet off the arm of a dead bridesmaid.

Chrollo blows his nose, sighs, then says, "A bit?"

"Only a crumb of empathy." She observes the links between the diamonds.

"Why?" He crumbles the napkin in his hand.

"Your wedding day is peak womanhood—the happiest day of your life." She keeps her back towards him. Dots of blood trail down her shoulder blade, staining the white lace of her dress.

He doesn't know what to say. Not that she expects him to say anything at all.

"I truly feel like a thief." Pakunoda laughs at herself, sliding the bracelet onto her wrists. It's too loose. She tosses it and settles for the diamond earrings instead.

"If it makes you feel any better, she's too dead to protest." Machi accidentally smears more blood into her blouse.

"True." Pakunoda moves on to the next body and Machi follows her.

Chrollo observes the magnitude of the mess they had made. The reception had been a success for the most part in Pakunoda's opinion. She keeps up with things like this to feel normal or to measure the quality of her life in hopes that it has drastically improved. Chrollo knew next to nothing about weddings. Only that they are expensive and rich daughters love to have them.

Shalnark rolls a severed head onto the floor, makes room at a table to help himself to a piece of cake.

In the middle of executing the goal, it didn't feel very ambitious. That could have a lot to do with having a cold. He sweats but his body feels like ice. He shrugs out of the suit jacket and throws it over his shoulder.

No pocket is left empty. Flicking loose fingers from the salad bowl, they gorged themselves on the cold food. They are criminals but did not believe in wasting a good meal.

Chrollo bites into a soggy roll, but can't taste anything. It simply feels like slippery mush in his mouth.

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How do people who abide by the rules find contentment? Chrollo can't imagine—living that way would feel inauthentic. Someone had said to him 'When you find a reason to stay put, nothing else matters' but his joy is fleeting. God had given him an insatiable palate. Sometimes, he catches himself searching.

Like Pakunoda, he participates in mundane activities. Not to remind himself that he is nothing more than an amalgamation of cells. Just so that he knows what comfort is. He gets it when he irons a shirt. Little things like the smell of clean sheets fulfill his necessary human desires.

It's the little things in life that matter; standing in line at the cleaners humbles him, suit folded under an arm, Chrollo patiently waits for his turn, flipping the gold spider coin in his pocket. This is peak simplicity. He enjoys the monotony of the receipts printing and the buttons on the register. A spiritual level of calm creeps up the corners of his mouth. An actor and his stage.

Behind the counter is an old woman with big hair. As soon as it's his turn, she vanishes behind the beaded curtain with an armful of coats and pants. Her footsteps against the carpet, plastic rustling, a loud hum from the back—the establishment smells like an enclosed attic. After three minutes, Chrollo politely taps the silver bell next to the register. Not because he's in a hurry. He just felt compelled to do so. This is an act of participating in normalcy.

A young woman with a cowlick stumbles through the beads. She pats down her bangs and apologizes.

"What do you have for us today?" A slight rasp ruins the gentle quality of her voice. She either smokes or sings loudly, often, when she's alone. As she steps up to the counter, readjusting the bobby pin in her nicely curled hair, Chrollo notices that she has the prettiest pair of brown eyes he has ever seen. The observation itself doesn't surprise him, but the feeling it gives him does.

"I need this dry cleaned." He neatly sits his suit on the counter. She doesn't give him eye contact. Her mind clearly elsewhere. Chrollo makes a quick judgement of her character. She hates her job. It's a means to an end. Pretty but unaware of it because looks still haven't gotten her very far. Dresses smart to feel better about her place in society, which is a very small cramped place. Absent minded but clever—she drums her fingers along her chin. A bandaid is wrapped around her pink finger.

_Wholesome._ Reminds him of a cold glass of pink lemonade.

Dragging a pen from a cup, she scribbles the date, looks at him for the first time without a trace of emotion and asks, "What's the name?"

"Lucilfer."

The corners around her nose wrinkle. He waits for the typical _'thats an interesting name'_ but it never comes. She rips a pink slip from a receipt book and hands it to him. Chrollo lightly crumples it in his fist, failing to touch her fingers in the exchange.

"We should be done by tomorrow afternoon." Still not interested in making eye contact, she proceeds to examine his suit. "Sir, you're missing a button on your sleeve."

He blinks, not having realized that himself. She holds up the cuff of his sleeve to show it to him.

"I can sew a new one on for you if you like? Unless you like the edgy frayed look." She says seriously.

"Will it cost extra?" It won't matter if it does. He sniffles.

Finally, she looks at him directly and, to his surprise, she smiles.

"Nah. Not for one tiny button." And then she breaks eye contact, turning her attention back towards his suit.

Shoving the receipt in his pocket, Chrollo stands there as if she has more to say.

"Tomorrow afternoon. Have a nice day sir." She scoops up the suit and disappears like the old woman behind the beaded curtain.

She left Chrollo with the impression that he really isn't all that interesting. He can't quite reconcile being brushed off as if he were a nobody, but the very 'act' of being no-one in particular was the source of his joy just moments ago.

He _could_ blame it on her poor customer service. That rationalization doesn't sit well with him either. The entire journey back to his hotel, he hated every crack in the cement and each tall building that blocked the setting sunlight.

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**_"Never love a wild thing...If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky." ~ Truman Capote_**

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**A/N: I don't know what this is. I've just got a huge fascination with the Phantom Troupe and wanted to write about Chrollo. When I figure out the direction, I will tag accordingly. This might just stay a single drabble. Anyway, thank you for making it to the end.**


	2. Machi Has A Secret

Machi has never wanted much. She doesn't envy people. Of course, she has feelings—but there isn't a single thing in the world she desires. Pakunoda calls it trauma. She had read up on it in a women's lifestyle magazine. It's funny that Pakunoda understands feelings in a natural sense but has to read up on 'emotional articulacy'.

"You're always evolving." She says to Machi, heels clicking against the pavement.

"Hm." Machi tilts her head to the side.

The start of this conversation was a dry-snitch. Pakunoda had picked a fuzzy piece of lint from Machi's eyelash, cupped her chin and accidentally dipped into Machi's mind.

Machi is in love with Chrollo and has avoided dealing with her feelings. That unusual character trait of not wanting occupies every level of her personality.

They walk in silence back to their hotel carrying Pakunoda's shopping bags. Machi had only bought herself a bottle of soda. She sips it through a straw, contemplating on 'evolving'. Nothing has changed over the years but her cup size. Sure, she is in love, but its more of a nuisance than a milestone.

"Why are you always measuring your life, Pakun?" She burps lightly into a hand.

Pakunoda lifts back her shades, combing back her hair. A smile lightens her face. She must've been waiting on someone to ask her. She too allows things to eat away at her conscience.

"Because I want to feel satisfied."

Machi waits a while before she replies, "I guess that makes sense."

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The Spider's deed made every headline. Yorknew has been the far opposite of a sleepy city, but with the magnitude of the uproar, one would guess that the streets were free of crime. The troupe had been hired by the disgruntled mother-in-law of the bride. A matriarch of social elites. She did not think the groom was fit enough to be the husband of an heiress. She insisted that they murdered every person who attended, for it was an offense to her pedigree. Even her own daughter, she offered no mercy. The Spider knows how to make a statement and that's why they were hired.

Shalnark gnaws on a corndog as he flips through the paper at a newsstand. He doesn't feel much of anything as the _beloved_ and now _beheaded_ bride stares back at him with a black and white smile.

_**The bride was found with her head perfectly severed from her neck**_**.**

_Feitan really knows how to cut meat_— Shalnark smirks at this musing. The movies make it look easy to hack through flesh, but it's really hard. A knife doesn't just pierce the skin. It has to be encouraged with blunt force and pure will.

_**The entire establishment looted. No pocket went unpicked.**_

A pearl necklace is no good on a fat dead corpse. Shalnark buys the newspaper and continues his fresh-air-stroll through the city. Yorknew's only flaw, in his opinion, is that it doesn't stink enough like Meteor. Yorknew smells exactly like the kind of place he woud never want to live. It smells phony. Just like an off brand version of an expensive cologne.

To lengthen his walk, Shalnark snakes through the alleyways. Cramped and puddle ridden spaces make him feel like he's at home. Finishing the last chunk of his corndog, shoving it all to one side of his mouth, he stops by a flipped open garbage can. He tosses the ketchup-y stick into pile of cola cans. As he claps his hands on his pants, his cell phone vibrates in his back pocket.

Nope. He isn't going to answer. He's on his own personal time until he makes it back to the hotel. However, he does whip it out to read a text message from Nobunaga.

Three question marks flicker across the screen when he opens the message and nothing else. Choosing not to answer, a frowning Shalnark puts his phone away.

One soda can topples from the stack, but Shalnark doesn't jump. Something small rustles around the smelly bags. He waits for a rat so zip past his feet but a rat never comes. With his foot, he kicks around the garbage. Curious because he really wants to see If Yorknew has fatter rats than Meteor.

But what he discovers is far more exciting than an obese rat. Hiding behind the trash, a tabby cat nibbles on the head of a mouse. There are several dead mice around its body. Their tiny hands and feet sprawled like they had died simply from petrification. The cat ceases his meal, sinking into the chunk of its body fat—gibbous green eyes absorbing Shalnark's incredulous smile.

"For a stray, you clearly have no trouble eating." Shalnark clears away more of the garbage. His phone starts to violently vibrate again.

"But I have a strong feeling you belong to someone."

It's the fattest dumpster diving cat he has ever seen. To his amazement, the cat isn't the least bit threatened. Curiosity bonds them together. Shalnark extends a fist, encouraging the cat to grant him permission. It wastes no time nudging its wet nose against his knuckles.

"Do you have a home?" Shalnark sincerely asks as if it is capable of answering him. The cat stops purring, looks him straight in the eyes and lets out a long whine.

"Of course you don't belong to anyone! Forgive me for assuming." Shalnark runs his palm up it's tail. He laughs at himself, forgetting all about the minor details of the wedding massacre.

Nobunaga sends him ten more text messages that will go unanswered.

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Machi watches the suds swirl around her toes and down the drain. Her favorite thing about traveling is experiencing the free soaps at hotels. For such a nice establishment, the shampoo label 'Citrus Explosion' sounds like something on sale at a beauty supply store.

She slides open the glass doors of the shower, the bottom of her feet slapping against the floor. The bathroom is humid like the inside of a catacomb but the tile feels like stepping on blocks of ice.

Walking straight to the foggy mirror, Machi doesn't dry herself off. She allows herself to experience the slippery cleanness. This is one of the small things many take for granted. Being wet and not having to immediately get dressed because the heat doesn't work. Or the inconvenience of washing your feet and having the bottom of them turn black all over again because there are more important priorities than mopping the floor. No one has time to 'spring clean' in Meteor. She hadn't even heard of the term until she watched some gooey soap opera in a run down motel two years ago.

As she turns the facet, she actually puts into perspective just how privileged she is. She doesn't feel rich. Like any other person, she has an empty stomach and normal needs. Chrollo told her that jenny isn't supposed to make you feel different. It's just a fault of living in the current state of the world.

That's what makes the Spider so special. They aren't driven by greed. As long as the sky is the limit, they just don't see a need to yield at a man-made ceiling. Laws? Borders? Imaginary dotted lines that give people a strong sense of identity.

But the Spider is an identity too..._so_...

Machi stops thinking hard about it.

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	3. Sweet Like Honey

The world is so big. Sometimes Melody is afraid that one day, in the middle of simply existing, she'd be swallowed up whole by the world's vastness. To be swallowed in a bad way would mean somehow losing parts of herself, leaving pieces everywhere for no one to find.

Like most people, she has dreams. However, not being a person of natural luck, achieving them will take a lot of time. Which she has plenty of. She waits outside of the cleaners for her old friend Gaku. _Any time now_, his car will come sputtering down the street.

Today, someone had asked her 'do you even smile'?

She smiles all the time. Just not when she's at work. Its been bothering her all day. Why would anyone expect people to be happy about work?

Ten more minutes pass. She tugs her tacky bucket hat down by her ears and groans, frowning up at the evening sky.

York New isn't a safe city. There's too many kinds of people that come and go, but it is a good starting point for folk like Melody—who want to experience what it's like to never have to mow a lawn. One thing she does miss about her home town is the smell of wet grass in the summer.

Right as she begins to dig in her purse for her phone to give him a call, Gaku's pick-up truck screeches down the compact one-way street. His front right-side tire pops the curb.

"What if it had started raining?" Melody taps the passenger side window with two fingers.

"You woulda just gotten wet!" He rolls the window down wearing a smile that touches the corners of his eyes. They haven't seen each other in a year and some odd months.

Melody throws her bag through the window first then opens the car door. She does her best to control her excitement—she wanted to know all of what he had been up to. Had he passed his Hunter exam? Did he have a new song he wanted her to learn? Gaku's imagination is his strongest trait. She compliments him with her scientific way of understanding sound. What he could only describe as feeling, Melody could perfectly give the music in his head form.

Her eyes water. It has been a long time since they've written music together.

Gathering her long skirt, she wiggles into of the passenger seat, slams the door shut. As she kicks off her sandals, Gaku dangles a card in her face. It takes a second for her vision to correct itself, he holds it so close to her face. She takes it from his hand to better observe its sleek lamination and the bold symbol stretched to each corner.

"Did you?" She hiccups.

"Yes. I'm officially a Hunter."

She doesn't want to hear anymore until they make it back to her cold apartment—a smelly corner in a quiet slum she had managed to find immediately after being evicted from her old place two months ago. A good story needs a safe space, where the going-ons of the world cannot interrupt the magic. Gaku gives her a nod of agreement, taking his license back, speeding down the trash littered road.

Melody turns on the radio. It plays the bridge of a song she has heard a million times in the supermarket, but she doesn't know the name of it nor the artist. A light tune like it's from the past but timeless in its clever rhyme. Melody sings along and the sorcery of her voice gives the song a layer of unique prettiness that only she is capable summoning.

Gaku has yet to meet anyone else capable of turning an echo into a harmony.

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Chrollo guzzles a double shot of honey flavored whiskey instead of taking cold medicine. If it's not D², he thinks taking over-the-counter drugs is a pitiful way of surrendering to weakness. He'd rather be flayed in the street, or worse, go to prison, before he numbs the flow of 'weakness' leaving his body. He will only ever do drugs to triple his extreme 'good' feelings.

The fat tabby Shalnark refuses to name nuzzles against Chrollo's bare ankle. Thirty minutes have passed and Pakunoda still isn't ready.

"Franklin and Nobunaga's train is delayed. They won't make it for dinner." Machi stares at her cellphone.

"Can't we just cancel the reservation?" Shalnark leans over the back of the couch. Chrollo's head is sunken in the cushions.

"They'll charge me a cancellation fee." Chrollo balances the almost empty glass on his knee. Money doesn't matter, however, Chrollo sometimes cares about the principles.

Machi doesn't enjoy watching Chrollo suffer with a stuffy nose. His face is flushed cherry red. Bullets of sweat line his forehead. The loose fall of his bangs cling to his face. His breathing rattles the drainage in his chest.

None of them challenge Chrollo. Even when he suggests something mildly irrational. It's an unspoken rule that they follow among themselves, unbeknownst to him. He encourages 'healthy' debate all the time, but their instincts know better. Pakunoda calls it their rule of 'unconditional love'.

Chrollo is polite about his stubborn behavior. He can't be talked down from his highs but he sure as hell possesses the divine capability of talking everyone else down the side of a cliff.

Shalnark winces at Machi when Chrollo begins to wheeze. If Chrollo were less beautiful, he wouldn't have such an affect on people. The cat jumps into his lap, Chrollo begins to cough. The whiskey slops over the glass and stains the carpet.

"Chrollo." Machi rarely speaks informally to him, "I speak to you as a human first. We should just cancel the reservation. You clearly don't feel well anyway."

Clearing his throat, he doesn't give her his usual prompt reply. He stares into the cat's green eyes, narrowing his gaze when he finally makes out his reflection. Chrollo drags a hand down his fuzzy back, up the curl of his tail and says, "Cat, what do you think?"

Of course, Cat doesn't respond. Satisfied purrs rumble from his big belly.

"What does being human mean to you, Machi?" Chrollo's large eyes find hers. Growing up, she learned how to read secrets in wide stares. Chrollo is the only person in the world, and she's been everywhere, that lacks detectable expression in his gaze. The eyes are suppose to glitter, dim, water, glass over. His eyes are just big gray mirrors.

Machi gets nervous. She folds her hands over a knee, searching her head for a way to explain herself. She lacks the language of emotional articulacy.

"Cat, do you think you're human? Do you know you're just a cat?" Chrollo rubs Cat's head. Cat purrs fiercely.

"In a past life, Cat, was a human. I know it." Shalnark tries to change the subject but Chrollo needles Machi down with his foggy glare.

"Human means being defenseless against death." She speaks calmly.

"Good thing I don't intend on dying." Chrollo woodenly retorts.

"Of course. No one ever intends on dying. It more often than not just occurs." Machi doesn't even realize that she is expressing affection. Chrollo doesn't receive it that way either.

"If a common cold kills me, then I deserve it." Chrollo sits up to straighten his back and Cat jumps to the floor, following Shalnark to the balcony of the hotel room.

Beneath Machi's stolid surface, deep down where her spirit is soft, she feels bad. It's a strange kind of bad too—like someone has taken a scalpel to her chest and cut her down the middle, exposing the pink supple flesh.

Pakunoda reveals herself from the steamy bathroom. Smartly dressed and wearing subdued excitement. It takes a moment for her to realize the atmosphere is somewhat rotten.

"You guys aren't ready?" She stands between Chrollo and Machi.

"Cancel the reservation. I don't feel good." He sits the glass down and sprawls out on the couch.

Machi stands to join Shalnark and fat Cat on the balcony, not being able to shake away this feeling of invasion within her heart-space. Pakunoda strangles on a disgruntled gasp. She had gotten dressed in her nice pantsuit for nothing.

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Feitan and Phinks squish inside the back of a cab. Both of their phones ring in harmony. A harsh vibrato and a light ping. Feitan settles the pink box in his lap before retrieving the phone from his deep pockets.

"Dinner is cancelled." Feitan mumbles. Phinks lights a cigarette. There's a laminated 'no smoking' sign taped to the back of the plexiglass separating them from the driver. He rolls down the window and breathes out his soul. Smoke rolling around his face, wind raking through his neatly gelled down hair, a strand breaks loose.

"Damn. I was really anticipating a steak." Phinks coughs when the wind shoots up his nose.

"Medium rare..." Feitan gives a depressing sigh, closing the screen of his phone. They hit a speed bump and the severed head rattles around the box. He peeks inside. The smell wafts around the back seat. It's already muggy in the cab. Crammed with the scent of urine and sun-cooked pleather.

The cab drivers swerves to the side of the busy road.

"Excuse me, sir, you cannot smoke..." But he doesn't get another word out. Phinks reaches through the opening of the plexiglass and puts the cigarette out in the man's eye. His scream and the fist he jams into the horn sets the motion for the remainder of the evening. Another failed attempt at doing something together as a family that doesn't involve pillaging. Not that any of them have grown tired of their crimes, but it always seems to be at the expense of their need for balance.

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Feitan comes down on the brakes at the tail end of a yellow light. He had missed a right turn.

"This is my second time ever driving a car." He can barely see above the wheel. Phinks sifts through the dead cab driver's wallet. It didn't take long to kill the man, but he had put up quite the fight—they'd gone easy on him for the sake of not ruining their clothes before delivering the bride's cleaved head to her mother. Phinks watches the dead body like it's bound to spring back to life, possessed by a spite demon. The man stays dead, slumped beside the hot pink box. Blood soaks through the bottom of it.

"Just don't run us in a ditch." Phinks grumbles when they drive over a pothole. He hangs his arm out the window so that his hand can fiercely glide along the fast currents. Feitan's eyes dart from one red tail light to another. Car zip past them like shooting stars.

"You don't drive like someone who hardly does it." Phinks states.

"I've seen enough high-speed chases on T.V." Feitan weaves around the traffic seamlessly.

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"I really hate that you can't see the stars here." Their room is on one of the highest floor. The 'Get-away' suite. A courtesy of their client. Still, his eyes cannot penetrate the thick fogginess that hangs over York New. The last of the sunlight is a golden belt around the horizon.

But Shalnark doesn't speak to anyone but Cat, who is understandably indifferent about the sky. Cats don't pay attention to things like that. So he thinks...he doesn't not much about cats.

He drinks straight from a tall bottle of red wine. Expensive wine is supposed to taste differently than the cheap stuff. He can't tell the difference so, like Cat, he is indifferent. It tastes alright. Makes his gut burn a little. The bottle is cool looking. He leans over the rail, watching the cars go back and forth. In his fluffy white bathrobe, imaging that he has always been some rich kid sipping straight from an expensive bottle of moscato.

Cat meows at him.

"I know." Shalnark smacks his lip impassively. He has no idea what Cat is trying to say. The longer he drinks, the wobblier his legs become. He spills himself into the lounger. As he knees point towards the sky, his robe splits open and the breeze caresses his naked nether regions. Arguably the most relaxed he has been in a while. Cat speaks to him again a little louder. Shalnark sits the bottle down with a light 'clink' and scoops Cat up and onto his chest.

"What? Do you want more rats to eat? We don't eat rats around here."

He begins to wonder why the hell he felt compelled to pick up a stray. Cat stinks like outside pollution.

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_**"What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it's curved like a road through mountains." ~ Tennessee Williams**_

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**A/N: I'd like to start by saying that I fiddled with the timeline and took some creative liberties. This is pre-Shizuku and Hisoka Phantom Troupe. They haven't killed the Kurta yet. I really don't know what direction I'm going in. I'm just writing out of my asshole. It's kind of like an experiment. I just need a good reason to write them. TLDR; this is an AU obviously. Thank you for reading. All errors I missed, I will get around to fixing them eventually. Sometimes if I don't just go ahead and upload, I end up hating it all and dragging it into the trash-bin lmfao.**


	4. About Time

Chrollo sets an alarm every morning even if he has nowhere in particular to be. Routinely, he always wakes up thirty minutes before the alarm can go off. Sunlight flushes his already hot, sweaty face. His throat is still raw from yesterday and his cold hasn't gotten any better. Rubbing his forehead, he sits up in the massive queen-sized bed. At his feet is Cat. He had squeezed his fat body through the slight crack of his door.

Cat squints back at Chrollo through the warm sunlight—they have a long stare off. Chrollo realizes Cat is nestled in his black shirt.

Pakunoda pokes her head inside of the room with a cigarette tucked behind her ear.

"Bright eyed and bushy tailed I see." She walks towards the night stand, carrying a glass of water.

Bright eyed, sure, but sleep blurs half of his vision. He blinks a few times until his sight corrects itself.

"Feitan and Phinks delivered the head." She urges him for the water. Some of it spills over the rem and spots the comforter.

"Cash or will it be wired into the account?" Chrollo takes the glass and chugs it, not stopping to breathe.

"We got a big brown paper back filled with cash." Pakunoda sits at the edge of the bed beside him.

Cat's purring distracts Chrollo from thinking. With his paws, he kneads at the shirt. The fabric pops each time Cat pulls back his claws and Chrollo cringes.

"Well..." Pakunoda pays Cat no mind.

"Well what?" Chrollo sits the wet glass between his thighs and covers the top with his palm.

"What's next on the to-do list?" Pakunoda smells like soap. The ends of her hair curl like she has just gotten out of the shower.

"Whatever the hell you want to do." Chrollo doesn't forget that he is their leader. It's just hard to focus once he's made up his mind about one thing. He can't devote his attention to multiple things at once. The right word is obsessive but he refuses to identify himself that way.

At that, Pakunoda rises from the bed, no longer blocking Cat from the sun rise. He flops on his backside so the warmth can touch his belly, chewing on something hard. Pakunoda grabs his furry face and picks a button from his mouth. He fusses at her with a low growl.

Absorbing the sun, Chrollo gets an idea. Pakunoda swats Cat off the bed and he scurries under the bed.

"I sure as hell hope the tubby little bastard doesn't have fleas." She holds up Chrollo's shirt. As she unfolds it, three more buttons fall onto the bed.

Chrollo's eyes widen.

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Four days out of a week, Melody absently watches people pass the tall storefront window. The shadows of the letters spelling 'cleaners' stretch across the floor, obstructing the paths of sunlight filtering the inside in a pale glow.

It is difficult to come to terms with how boring her life is while their are Hunters out in the world getting in and out of trouble. Gaku had detailed his experience as a new Hunter last night in the middle of three beers. She draws spiraling circles into the empty receipt booklet with a pencil, further depressing herself. The window absorbing the summer heat makes her even more miserable. Sweat curls her bangs against her forehead.

The door opens but she doesn't readily look up from her daydreaming. Her circles become shapeless swirls and zig zags. Melody doesn't stop scribbling in the book until the patron taps the bell. She lifts her head meeting his stare. It's the man from he other day with the odd name. Lucilfer. She surprises herself by remembering. Very few people leave an impression on her. Not that she's unfriendly. Her mind is occupied by other things, like what she's going to eat for dinner.

He lays a black button down shirt across the counter, covering the receipt book and her hands. A sheen of sweat lines his perfectly arched top lip. Melody blinks two times, mystified by his affectless exterior. He kind of reminds her of a dead-eyed model in a glossy magazine. Something about him is inauthentic. She is perceptive enough to notice, but it could just be a filter most criminally beautiful people have.

"You brought me something else?" It's all Melody can think to say, pinned down by his steely gaze. She can't look him directly in the eyes. It is soul crushing how attractive he is and that could have a lot to do with her being able to remember his name.

Only briefly does he take his eye off her, showing her that this different shirt is missing five buttons. Three on the front and the sleeves.

"I lose buttons like eyelashes." He jokes without smiling.

"That's very specific." Melody takes the shirt in her hands, pretending to observe the buttonless threads.

"Is it?" He has very long eyelashes.

Melody acts like she doesn't hear him, gathering the shirt in her arms. Clearing her throat and rushing behind the beaded curtain, she tosses his black shirt over her shoulder.

Chrollo still isn't satisfied with the lack of communication. He runs a hand through the mess of his bed-hair, then he breathes into his palm to smell his breath—his mouth still smells like the minty toothpaste. He gives himself a moment of self-reflection. What does he want to obtain?

She returns with his suit on a hanger.

"What is your name?" He stuns her with this question.

"Melody." She breathes.

Chrollo figures it out right there. Attraction is complicated brain chemistry. Science says it has to do with the way one smells. He isn't close enough to inhale the scent of her sweat and her perfume. The inside of the building is musty. The air isn't on.

Melody gently sits the suit on the counter. Like him, she is skillful at a poker face. This is by far the strangest interaction she's ever had in York New.

The heat suffocates the need to speak. It is, without a doubt, awkward. Somehow, Melody feels likes she has let him down in some way. His black shirt drapes her bare shoulder and the bright blue of her dress.

"Thats a nice name." Chrollo licks the sweat from his lips.

"Thank you." The flattery doesn't make his name any less silly.

Melody hurriedly punches at the buttons on the till. Chrollo hands her crisp bills of jenny.

The last time he gave a genuine effort at flirting could've been years ago. He can't remember. Normally he doesn't have to give much effort at all when it comes to women. They are drawn to him like gnats are drawn to light.

"Are the buttons still free?" He tries again.

"I don't see why they wouldn't be." A flustered Melody wrinkles her nose.

"Tomorrow same time?" Chrollo needles her.

He's got big saucer eyes that don't shine.

"Yes. Tomorrow after noon." She blushes for the very first time.

Chrollo inspects the new button on his suit before giving her the most pleasant smile that he is capable of. The muscles in his face tingle because it's been just that long since he's had to be deliberately charming.

And he still doesn't feel like he's accomplished anything.

"Thank you, Melody." He doesn't linger when he leaves.

Melody catches her breath and fans her red cheeks with her hands.

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End file.
